The Sanctity of My Home
by Jadeblueafterglow17
Summary: When the leader of the GSM sets out for revenge, will either of our heroes live long enough to bring them to justice?
1. Chapter 1

Author: JadeblueAfterglow17

Title: Sanctity of My Home

Disclaimers: I don't own it, not making any money...but neither are they! Please put it on Netflix!  
I'm so sad Get TV stopped airing Hardcastle & McCormick. I love it and my teenage kids are addicted to it! So I had to write about it. This is just a short vignette I've had rolling around in my head. I have a longer story I can't finish until I push this out. It's my first H&M. The character Sandy Tyson is based on the episode "There Goes The Neighborhood" where "Mark asked who are we going after next..."

Warning: Potential Character Death

Chapter 1: Georgia Street Motors (revised)  
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The ceiling of the dark dank cell had lewd pictures of naked women, certainly not something he would normally tolerate, but he being a cop, a former cop, he had to bide his time and try not to cause too much trouble before he could manage to get himself out of Starkville. His bunkmate, a young junkie, who'd been forced to trade his meth habit for smokes, had politely given up that bottom bunk in deference to his age. In return he promised the kid smokes every time he got his hands on them. It was a deal the young junkie could hardly refuse.

If he was forced to go to San Quentin, he knew that his chances of survival were far less. He wouldn't be bargaining for his bed, but for his life.

The mattress felt damp, and the springs protruded into his back as he lay contemplating the events to come. No matter how sweet the revenge would be, he would be hard pressed to erase the memories of this cell and his torturous time in it from his memory.

Stale.

Moldy.

Musty.  
The air inside this hell where he'd sent hundreds of prisoners was putrid with the scent of sweaty men and urine. It was worse than hell. He was face to face with murders, child molesters, thieves and the scourge of the Earth.

He didn't belong here. He brought people to justice. He was the executioner of justice when this system failed. And now because of one son of a bitch whose moral compass had been tainted by one of those bastard criminals, he was stuck here, quite possibly for the rest of his life if he was convicted by a jury. A jury of his peers. It was his people, (compatriots and peers) whom his line of work made it safe for them to sleep in their beds at night. In a matter of days all that had been taken away from him.

In a matter of weeks he would be facing that trial. They had always called him the "diplomat" of the group. If he was going down for this. He would take down his jailers with him.

The buzzer of the jail door triggered a elderly man walked out of his dark abnormally humid cell, and came face to face with another inmate who was waiting for him in the same place they had been meeting for the last ten days. As a guard slipped between the two men he was handed a slip of paper with the layout of a house on it. He didn't bother to unfold it. He trusted the old man knew exactly what he was doing.

"Did you get the message to Schaefer?"

"Yeah...believe it or not, he hates him more than we do ...said he would do it for free, but I told him, there was no use risking him being involved.

"Are you sure that there's no way they can trace it back to us?"

"I don't give a damn if they can. Tyson wanted to get back at that bastard judge, and you know how much he values that punk kid. Apparently enough to turn on his friends; enough to put us in here like common criminals."

"Schaefer said he would get him out there himself. Seems the kid left a bad taste in his mouth, smart mouth and all."

"Soon as it s done, we can wait awhile and ask for a retrial, and get out of this dump...no witness no evidence."

"What about the judge?"

'It's a shame about him...he'll be so consumed with grief he'll take his own life."

The two men smiled. As the buzzer sounded they knew their 15 minutes of freedom was up. Their whole life was riding on a fellow prisoner paroled today. He didn't even want a lot of money; just wanted a ticket to Mexico, and the means to be comfortable for the rest of his life.

It was a good idea. None of them would have to get their hands dirty, and everything would go just as planned.

Sandy Tyson stood outside the prison walls waiting as his ride finally pulled up, in a gold Trans Am. He opened the door, flipped off the guards at the prison gate and the driver sped off as dust and rocks kicked up in their wake. He stared over at his girlfriend. They'd had 6 conjugal visits since he'd been thrown in prison 2 years ago. At the first stop light her hands made her way in his lap and he tussled his hands through her long red hair passionately kissing her. When a horn honked irritatingly behind them, she gunned the motor, and sped down the open highway back to her apartment. Glancing over into the backseat, he saw a sealed suitcase. A combination he would receive in a mere 24 hours along with a final payment. Tyson laid his head back on the head rest. This would be well worth it.

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It had been an unusually cool day for late September. The sea breeze brought a long with it a true hint that fall was just around the corner, and for once they were due for some cool weather. It would be a blessing if it stopped the maniac growth of the grass and foliage of Gull's Way estate. Keeping up with its maintenance, chasing down bad guys, and keeping his third career a secret from the judge had made him feel a lot older than his young 32 years.

After mowing the back 40, cleaning the pool, and changing the oil and fuel injector in both his Coyote and the judge's Corvette, he was exhausted. Mark barely had enough strength to eat half a meatloaf sandwich before begging the Jazzmasters for peace.

Apparently there would be none tonight, as he stumbled off to his tiny house to grab some shut-eye before his 8.a.m. class. He let the warm spray of water run over tense muscles showering quickly. The locks of his curly hair lay like tendrils of chocolate on his neck as warm streams raced in torrents down the sinews of his back. As much as he enjoyed the respite, he knew that his books were calling to him. Mark wrapped a towel around his waist, quickly drying off and toweling off his hair. As he made his way upstairs, he grabbed a pencil from the drawer and tried desperately to write down a few notes at his desk which overlooked the stair case. The barely flickering flames from the fireplace he had started earlier was hypnotic and the words on his paper became a jumble as he tried to concentrate on the fundamentals of civil treaties. The hearth of the fire and the exhaustion allowed him to ignore the music as his eyes began to grow heavy.

He found himself stuck on the same page as concentration escaped him.

"If the saints ever come marching in this place it'll be to confiscate those damnable instruments and ship them off to hell where they belong." Mark mumbled to himself.  
By 12 a.m. the Jazzmasters had driven him completely insane.

Giving up on concentrating at his table he tossed the damp towel on the back of his chair, and gathered his beige colored briefs and blue pajama bottoms sliding them over slim hips before falling back on to his bed.

As he lay in his bed a pleasant breeze played across his bare chest, he tried desperately to join his dream of skinny dipping with Vonna Westerlake. The curly haired lightly stubbled man settled a pair of headphone in his ears as the hideous band was wistfully drowned out by his 80's rock music...and it began to lull him to a peaceful sleep. His book on Treaties slowly eased from his hands as it fell heavily onto the floor.

His thin lips parted as his face grew slack, the music of Tears for Fears" dragging him into a deeper sleep. A soft snore escaped his exhausted lips as his face took on the child like features with his long sandy brown eyelashes, high cheek bones and the still damp brown curls lay over his eyebrows. A sheen of moon light from a waning gibbous moon glimmered through the window pane above his bed.

Welcome to your life

There's no turning back

Even while we sleep

We will find you acting on your best behavior

Turn your back on Mother Nature

Everybody wants to rule the world

There's a room where the light won't find you

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down

When they do I'll be right behind you

So glad we've almost made it

So sad they had to fade it

Everybody wants to rule the world

His features softened and he never heard the window on the left side of his bed slide full open, or saw the glint of the blade as it was removed from its sheath with a gloved hand. A sharp punch into his chest jolted his eyes open, as he felt the pain deepen, and suddenly his breath was stolen. Before he could focus his eyes the action was repeated on the other side of his body, with a deep painful twisting motion as he tried to raise his head and hands to defend himself but the struggle to breathe overwhelmed him.

In the moonlight streaming from the window above his bed he could see a figure straddle him and the glint of a long blade covered in blood dripping his precious life onto his bare body. A gurgling sound reached his terrified ears just as the knife came down again in his thigh. The copper metallic taste of blood gurgled from his throat...he couldn't scream...he couldn t catch his breath. A set of cold blue eyes were suddenly in his face, he tried to blink away from the terror...

"It's just a dream...it s just a dream." he begged himself, but the twisted smile kissed his lips and came away stained with his blood. Then his attacker continued the assault stabbing his arms, his chest, cutting through the muscles on his arms. The struggle to breathe became too great and even as she continually slapped his face to keep him awake the lack of oxygen pulled him under. One last stab just below his navel sent blood pouring from his mouth. She grabbed his hair. Tears stole in soft pools from his eyes, a terror he'd never faced was playing out like a nightmare from hell. How he had allowed this person to have this kind of power over him?  
She pulled the knife to his face as a sudden calmness came to him.

Would death come quickly or slow. He could see it in her eyes. The fear he tried to hide made her actions more relentless.

She whispered into his ear. "Do you want to die?"

He half expected something insane to come from her lips. The glint of blue in her eyes almost grey in their madness.

But before he could answer he felt the knife puncture his throat in a thin line just below his Adam s apple.

"Do you?"

He knew he was dead either way, he couldn't feel anything but the stinging pain and the immense cold that reeked of extreme shock.  
Somewhere a voice he didn't know he had, just a whisper came out in a frothy foam of red. As his voice hitched.

"Not ...like...this."  
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Milton C. Hardcastle awoke with a sore set of lips. Something about playing a trombone was ultimately satisfying, but after four straight hours, it was also inheritantly painful. As he smoothed the gray stubble across his beard he was surprised he wasn't awakened by the roar of the Coyote as the kid tore out for his daily class. A quick check at the clock indicated it was already 7:15. A quick shave and shower and he'd head down to see about making his own breakfast.

Comfortable in his blue jogging suit and matching pants he gently shaved his well-aged face. Surprised to find the older man staring at him in the mirror, he glanced down at his chin and was even more surprised to find a few drops of blood dotting his chin. He cleared the bright red drops with a few dabs of tissue.  
Staring out the open front door he was greeted by the chirping of birds that made his beautiful gardens their permanent home, a whiff of the fresh sea water wafting in from the Pacific Ocean and the gentle trickling of the fountain as it danced from the mouths of sea lions to thirsty maidens in the center. He'd have to tell McCormick he did a good job repainting and repairing it, it looked just as beautiful as it had when he and Nancy enjoyed their first kiss there under the starlight.

The judge ambled down the brick stairs in his sneakers vying to snatch the likely already used newspaper from his front stoop, and froze where he stood.

The paper fell from his hands like a stone. He wiped his own eyes amazed to see the Coyote still parked in the yard.

Glancing down at his watch it was now 7:35...the kid was late. There would be no way he could make it to the UCLA campus before the class began. He was so proud of the kid. He had accidentally discovered his tuition bill in the mail and when he questioned the kid Mark had confessed that not only was he in school but he was pre-law. One check into the college found that the kid was being modest. He was at the top of his class, with only the time in January when he'd been shot by Dex Falcon forcing him to miss part of his term.

He usually played with his band well past midnight but in deference to his young charge needing his beauty sleep for school, the band ended their time shortly after midnight. The kid had complained about the noise, but eventually gave in at midnight and he assumed had drifted off to sleep after the band had stopped.

"MCCORMICK!" he bellowed in the direction of the gatehouse as he began his angry march toward the house. By the time he'd reached the gatehouse door he'd shouted the young man's name at least ten more times. He hated to barge in on him, you never knew what a bachelor like the kid was up to but this time he was messing with his education. He banged on the front door.

"MCCORMICK! UP and AT EM!" As he reached to open the door his finger touched a dried red substance all over the door. Suddenly his heart sunk. Seeing another print on the door frame he carefully removed his jacket using the sleeve to open the door.

As he entered the eerily quiet gate house the only sound he could hear was the thundering beat of his own heart and the gush of terrified blood racing past his own ears. He eyed the stairwell noticing no movement coming from above. Nearly tripping over Mark's red Nike sneakers he hesitantly began his climb up the staircase.

His voice took on a hint of fear as he called out to his companion one again. "McCormick? Are you up here? You Decent?" A timid voice asked. Almost on autopilot he approached the bed. Its cover pulled all the way up above the pillow. Earphone wires inching their way from the stereo down under the covers.

Disgusted over his worry, he snuck behind the kid and turned the earphones as loud as they could go and waited for McCormick to leap from the bed at the sound. Even he could hear the somewhat muted sound blaring through the headphone under the comforter. That sick feeling permeated his being again. He approached the bed glancing at the sides and noticed a bright red stain covering the sides of the sheet. It was the most recognized color he'd ever seen, a cop's nightmare, a scene he'd seen only a few short months prior when his best friend had been shot and left for dead by the side of the road.  
His breath caught in his throat as he pulled down the covers and exposed a face so devoid of color it was almost blue. The curls in his hair were slick with moisture and blood bubbled and ran in thin rivulets from pale blue lips.

"Oh my God...Mark?" Hardcastle slowly pulled down the comforter revealing a white sheet that was stained so red and soaked with blood it clung to McCormick's bare chest. When he pried the sheet from his dear Tonto's neck his heart plummeted to his stomach. His face was frozen in a pain filled visage of terror. Quivering hands reached to find a pulse at his carotid. He could find none. Stilling his shaking hands he slowly tried again, and held his breath afraid to move. He waited...what seemed like an eternity before a few slow thumps were felt beneath his fingers.

Edited and updated 2/13


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Sanctity of My Home by: Jadeblueafterglow17

Notes: 1. I appreciate reviews, they actually make me want to write faster as I have six incomplete stories I need to finish. Since I don't just take stuff directly from the episode and weave it into a story, and my stuff is original, I don't use a Beta. I have helped other people write and have been a Beta for their stories and a couple of them have flat out stolen my work. I had to literally demand credit for my work, so that won't happen again. I also write as it literally flows out of my mind. If I stop to correct something I may lose an entire sentence.

2\. 90% of my stories are written between 2-4 a.m. when my insomnia kicks in, so if it makes any sense at all I'm ecstatic. After I have worked 8 hours and taken care of my kids, including one with Autism, I'm surprised I can come up with something more than gibberish. So, I'm sorry if you have found errors, I don't think there were enough to cause confusion or take away from the story. No, I don't join groups. I like doing challenges, but I simply do not have the time for such luxuries.

3 All of my stories are written in notepad and it takes time between chapters because I just had a second cervical spinal fusion, which makes it painful to type. Notepad doesn't have the greatest source to fix errors but I am "old school." I teach Science, not English and if all you can find wrong is grammar then, PM me privately and I will fix it.

4.I appreciate critical, useful reviews, and those who are fans of my most popular stories "Kaltbluetig", "Into the Darkness," "Final Mission", and "By Herside" messaging me privately and requesting the next installments on those works, I am doing my best to remove these three separate H&M stories from my head so I can get back to those stories. Thank you for your faithfulness and patience.

, I watched Hardcastle and McCormick when I was a child, watched it daily all summer until it ended in January on "GET TV. I have the DVD's. My autistic son quotes it every day as if it were scripture. I appreciate your advice, but I think I know how or what a character would feel, especially when it's Mark. I feel really connected to his character. God bless the man who put Daniel Hugh-Kelly in that role, for it would not have been the same without his glorious smile and personality. Judge, Milt, Hooker, Stone Haybearing jackass, Donkey, or Hardcase, has called or referred to McCormick as "Mark", when he has been worried about him, or he wanted his full attention to tell him something serious. "Kiddo, and McCormick," did not fit the scene in Chapter 1. Believe me I know these characters. Before I write any fanfiction, I research as much as I can, and read a variety of fiction so I don't do something similar to what is already out there. So Mark J. McCormick, Born February 2, 1954 will be an Aquarius, Pisces rising in my story, and he will, (if he lives) :) show every bit of the range of the emotions that we did not always get to show on TV, but we all knew had to exist because these characters were perfectly acted by two amazingly talented thespians. If you don't like it feel free not to read it.

New readers. Thank you, your reviews bring me joy, when you take the time not only to read but to write a few words to let me know what you think and give me some good suggestions I really appreciate it. Without further ado, here's chapter 2.

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Chapter 2: Officer Down 6 Hours Earlier

Angel cut a few strands of Mark McCormick's curly hair from his head with the knife and stole his wallet from his dresser as she carefully made her way down the stairs unknowingly leaving personal footprint stains on the carpeted floor of the dark stairs as she took one last look at her dying victim and headed out the door.

"Too bad cutie...you and me could have had a lot of fun together, but money is money."

It had only been a matter of minutes but seemed like hours had passed since Angel had slinked from the confines of his Trans Am and made her way through the gates of the Malibu estate. As he saw her lithe form coming back towards the car in the darkness lit only by the glow of the moonlight he pondered if she was able to accomplish her task. The blast of the Dixieland style music continued to drone on loudly from the large house, as he kept watch for the door to open at any time. He could still hear the sounds of jazz music blaring from the main house.

He saw a wide grin plastered on her face as she removed gloves and climbed into the seat beside him. Slowly she slithered into the seat on top of his lap. She fixed her body atop his lap and smiled deviously. Her blood stained lips kissed his as she drew him in passionately with her tongue into his mouth.

After a several moments passed, he was able to break away breathless. He licked his lips finding the taste of blood curious on his lips.

"I take it you had fun my sweet Angel?"

Angel Gillam tossed her black hair over her shoulder and smiled feraly as she thought of the torture she had just taken part in. She found herself pleasantly aroused by the fact that she had brought this man to brink of death and watched as his last breath was stolen from his body.

"Oh yes baby. That was beautiful. I did just as you said. The knife is in his hands, it is covered in his prints, and he will be long dead before the sunrise. My strokes were precise. I stabbed his gut, twisting it in deeply, and slicing it forward up to his lung. I tore at his arms and cut open his veins so he would bleed slowly and painfully. I struck him right at his leg, I know I hit the right spot, because it gushed forward covering my shirt in his bright red hot blood."

"Did he see your face?"

"Yes, I made him look at me; I wanted him to see who was doing this to him."

"You shouldn't have done that, there might have been cameras. What if he lives?" She rubbed her hands gently down his sides unbuckling his shirt, caressing his chest hair. She leaned in closely, and whispered in his ear.

"So what if he does... I asked him if he wanted to die, as I sliced open his neck, and what he said surprised me."

"Why, did he beg for his life, I knew he was a punk...?

"No, actually...he said simply "not like this." He didn't want to die like this. So I left him, and I stabbed him in right in the sack and he barely made a sound. I shoved the knife in his hands and walked out the front door."

"Yikes!" Why the heck did you do that?"

"If he lives he will wish he was dead, if he dies, all the better. With his prints... on the knife, I don't really care." she coolly snatched his shirt open and began unbuckling his belt buckle when suddenly the music died. She continued planting small kisses on his neck, slowly grinding in his lap. He threw his head back and moaned softly.

"I think you guys got the wrong guy, this cutie pie didn't care if he lived or died, and he was more concerned with who would find his body. Poor chump."  
Why not kill the judge? Frame the guy and it s all neat and clean?" she whispered, gently pushing her fingers downward until she saw his eyes roll into the back of his head.

"It's not that simple. Everybody involved thinks the guy you just did your slice and dicing with is a snitch...he was sent up for two years by that bastard Hardcastle, and now he lives here at his mansion. He forgot where he came from. There's a code you know?"

"We found out that jackass Hardcastle really cares about this guy, like a best friend, some even believe like a son. First we attack his heart, then his mind and then his body.

He tossed the buxom brunette from his lap and into the passenger seat.

"He pointed to the main house as the door opened and people started to head outside. "You should have made sure he was dead. What if someone saw you coming out the front door?"

"Nah, that old battleax judge was playing music so loud I could have murdered the whole block and no one could have been the wiser."

"Well, let's get out of here, we can collect the rest of our cash and get the hell out of California."  
They exchanged another kiss on the lips, fired up the Trans-Am and slowly crept away from the mansion and homes of Pacific Coast Highway.

A glint of the morning sunshine began inching its way above the horizon as the two sped off into the desert hoping that their next stop to collect their funds would be the last they would hear of the fiasco. He could write Judge Milton C Hardcastle and his sidekick out of his life for good. He had done his part the rest was up to Schaefer.

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He counted the slow desperate heartbeats and prayed they would continue under his shaking hands.

He didn't have time for platitudes or reassurances...if he didn't get help his friend, his best friend was going to die...right here right now.

Hardcastle quickly stumbled across the bedroom, nearly tripping over a textbook. He launched himself at the telephone on the desk at Mark's table. His hands already slick with blood. He saw his bloody print land automatically on the digits 911. With a fear he didn't know he was capable of he screamed at the attendant for an ambulance:

"I need an ambulance, at 1 Pacific Coast Highway, Gulls Way,"

"What is the state of your emer...?

My friend has been stabbed...Oh God...he's bleeding everywhere, please get the paramedics here quick. And get someone to get LAPD Lieutenant Harper. The words "officer down" tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself.

"Sir I need you to stay on the phone..."

"I can't stay on the phone...I gotta try to help my friend...DAMN IT, JUST GET HERE!" the phone sprung from his hand as he grabbed blankets and towels and ran back to the bed.

With terrified fingers, he went back to the carotid and waited for the telltale signs of life. The blue lips stained red, the stillness, and sheets beneath him and above him, so covered in blood he was afraid that in just those few moments that he had slipped away.

"Hang on kiddo, I'm gonna get us some help...please hang on."

The Judge closed his eyes tightly, and he looked skyward. "Please God...Please don't take him...help me, please."

Milton C Hardcastle secretly prayed each night. He talked to his long gone wife and son, and prayed that they took care of each other until it was his time to join them. Every once and awhile he would pray to be a bit kinder to that aggravating kiddo who could do no less than drive him to fits of insanity. But it was rare, ashamedly rare when he called upon his God by name and begged for him to watch over him or his best friend Mark McCormick when he was sick or injured. He thought assuredly the kid had used up all of his nine lives when he was left gut shot and at the bottom of a ravine for more than six hours.

He pulled down the sheet to expose his bare chest. There were deep cuts oozing blood. The judge felt angry hot bile churning in his gut as he tried to keep pressure on the deepest wounds. His chest had three fatal looking wounds. Based on the blood pouring from Mark's mouth and the blue tinge to his lips and fingers he was definitely losing air through a sucking wound to at least one of his lungs. He pressed as hard as he could on the wound that seemed to slice his chest in two. He glanced briefly up at Mark's face and saw no change in expression, as more pink frothy blood coming from his lips. He stole the pillow from the head of the bed; Mark's head suddenly flat against the mattress lolled to the side. The Judge swiftly reached under the covers and pulled Marks legs out into the open and nearly collapsed at the sight. From the waist down and all over his right leg, he was covered in blood. He lifted his legs as high as he could build them with the pillows on the bed.

More blood.

A deeper darker red coating the entire bottom half of his body. His breath was stolen from his body. He felt anger well up in him, as he fought the rage that brought tears to his eyes, where they pooled but did not fault. It was the shimmer of his own eye, which helped him catch the glint of sunlight now shining on the metal in Mark's open hand spread palm up on the patchwork quilt that had brought him comfort so many nights in this house.

A knife.

Good Lord. It was more than 8 inches in length. One stab would go through his entire thin body. Meat, and bone, flesh and muscle. It was covered in blood all the way up to the handle.

How much of it had been plunged into the kid s body? He couldn't think about that now. He couldn't see the rise and fall of Mark's chest. He was terrified he wasn't breathing. The gurgling noise he had been making had long since stopped since his phone call. He was torn between, keeping his hands on his wrist to keep hold of his pulse, (a pulse that seemed to stumble like a drunk in the streets, uneven and callous) and looking for signs that the kid was getting any air. Mark hadn't moved an inch. His left hand was draped over the bed and rivulets of arterial blood ran down it.

It's too much.

It's too much. He's not coming back to you this time. "No!" he found himself shouting in the still quiet room. He pulled Marks's arms to his chest and pressed them against the towels already in place, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. He was finally able to look into his young friends face. Devoid of color, devoid of life.

WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!

Milt was nearly startled out of the bed, he hadn't even heard the sirens as the sound alerted him to help arriving. He wasn't expecting the banging at the door when it came so urgently.

"IT"S OPEN! COME ON UP!" He loosened his grasp for only long enough to turn and face the sound of someone barreling up the stairs.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"You called me! What happened to Mark? Never mind...ambulance is just a minute or two out. What can I do?"

Frank Harper looked from the blood covered body in the bed and back to the terrified face of one of his oldest friends.

"Help me Frank, he's dying."

It was minutes later when the paramedics found their way into the gatehouse led by a second officer and a Fire/EMT who found Frank Harper putting pressure on the wounds on Mark's neck as he steadily used an ambu breather over his nose and mouth.

In what seemed like hours had passed the paramedics had started an IV in his left foot. He had so many damaged tissues they didn't want to run the risk of the one line they could get blowing in transfer. A brace was place around Mark's neck, he was strapped to a backboard and in the oddest transport he'd ever seen a smaller female paramedic, sat atop Mark, holding on to the IV bag and Oxygen breather as they managed the stairs and made their way into the awaiting ambulance.

Milt Hardcastle rushed up to the portable gurney and begged for pause as a bag of O+ blood was being infused rapidly squeezed by hand by the female attendant.

"Sir we have to go, he's..."

"Please just one second." he leaned down and grabbed Mark's ice-cold hand, and leaned next to his friend's ear. I'm here kiddo. Please don't give up. Please hold on. You can have every drop of my blood, just hold on." He squeezed Marks hand again as he was pulled away, and loaded into the ambulance. He winced at the doors slamming and his young charge being taken from his sight.

Frank held fast to a quickly angering Milt Hardcastle as he tried to charge after the ambulance.

"No...they need room to work; we can follow in my car." Milt nodded numbly as he was pulled to the awaiting vehicle, silently relinquishing the keys to his estate to another awaiting detective.

"Would Mark make it to the hospital?" he though t to himself.

The ride was silent, except for the wail of the siren as they chased behind the ambulance in the bright morning sun.

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It's short but I'm already working to post chapter three this weekend.


	3. Chapter 3

Author: Jadebluafterglow17

Category: Hurt/Comfort & Tragedy

Notes: Please note that when I put up chapter 2 that I indicated potential lead character death is now possible. I hope you will join me on the road to eventual justice for Mark and bear with me because my stories come on like a vision, and it has to play itself out before I know it's done, I'm hoping two more chapters but because of the new twist I dreamed up, I'm thinking three. I guess next I'll have to write a nice fanfiction about fanfiction writers that have a BORG hive mind mentality. LOL  
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Chapter 3: Praying For Time

He never thought he would miss the absence of color.  
Reds of a freshly picked apple;  
The warm red-orange haze of a setting sun;  
The green grass, freshly cut, moist with dew under his feet as he collected his morning paper;

There was none of that now. The walls were gray, stained even darker with age, dust, and vile acts he dared not dream about. The dull blue scratch cloth, which passed as prison garb, matched the feeling in his heart that there would be any hope of getting out of here. Claims of murder and attempted murder had landed him here, beyond the confines of a temporary jail cell, and now here he sat trying to recall the sound soulful music, stored somewhere deep in his memory, something - anything, to carry him away from this place.

As the klaxon sounded and the door to his cell opened, Roy stumbled out of the darkness of his cell. He stood facing the balcony below as an armed guard slid in close range.

"How fares the outside world?"

The guard took off his hat and used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat at his brow.

"Word on the street is that there was a bloodbath last night. Your witness was butchered to death in his sleep."

Surprised and delighted eyes glanced up quickly and then looked back down over the balcony. "So, our problem is gone?"

"My contact with LAPD said based on what he saw, that puke is no longer your worry. Tyson was true to his word. His partner is crazy; she gored him like a bull chasing a matador."

"Give him the codes to the case; he gets the rest when Hardcastle is out of the picture. There's enough for you to get out of this dump Schaefer."

The guard pulled out his night stick and slammed it against the iron door startling the elder man.

"He's mine." The former cop and judge felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end.

"Ok do whatever you want to do, just make sure neither is available for that trial."

Another alarm sounded sending the prisoners down from Cell Block "A" into the line for their daily dose of gruel; lumpy potatoes, grade F meat, stale bread, and coffee, no sugar, no cream, just black as night. He longed to see his other compadres of the Georgia Motors Club, but it had been his gun that was fired on two occasions. Somehow, they'd been located in another part of the prison, and one of their members tied to four murders was already serving time in San Quentin. He was lost in thought and felt the jab in the back from a prisoner ushering him through the slop line, he took his meal and sat at a table alone. He had to survive in here. His fellow prisoners knew he had been a cop. It did not bode well. His only protection was his roommate who slid in beside him. He was a junkie, but he was 6'3 and 250 lbs. His roommate, Robbie kept him safe. It had only been a few days and he'd seen many makeshift shanks pointing in his direction.

He would not die in this hellhole.

He would not die at the hands of the murders and cop killers he helped put away.

He would get himself out of this nightmare. Phase one was already underway. He sat staring at the globs of food on the tray and offered it to his ravenous roommate, only bothering to sip at the rancid black coffee.

Roy would bide his time. This time he would lay his enemies to rest. A smile played upon his lips. Revenge would be sweet, almost sweet enough to die for.

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It was surreal.

The ambulance doors popped opened as Milton C. Hardcastle leapt from the still moving vehicle heading for the now open ambulance that held in it his young friend. When Mark was pulled from the ambulance, he was no longer on his back, but was actually lying on his side. Pressure cuffs were inflated on his legs, empty bags of blood lay strewn on the gurney beside him, large packs of bloody gauze were taped to his back, and a tube snaked from his throat and neck, both stained with crimson.  
The deep red stained all of the personnel from the ambulance as they quickly made their way through the hospital door they were met by a doctor with blonde curls, seemingly not much older than McCormick was.

"Give me the bullet." He announced as he, two nurses dressed in scrubs, and yellow cloth aprons pulled the gurney into an awaiting trauma room.

"32 year old Caucasian male, approximately 6'1, 150lbs, with no prior health issues. Patient was found hemorrhaging substantially from multiple puncture wounds in his own bed two hours past sunrise by I'm guessing his father." The judge heard the EMT's words but paid them no heed; he just wanted to know what was happening before they whisked him away.

"Double pneumothorax, due to possible repeated stab wounds in the chest. Two in the left lobe, three in the right lobe, pleural effusion, aorta has been sliced, colon is perforated, belly is warm and swollen. Multiple deep 6-8 inch knife wounds to upper extremities and two to the lower including the veins of the thigh, 2 mm from the femoral artery and the left testicle severed from the body due to a deep laceration into the scrotum. Glasgow coma scale 1E, 1V, 1M. Lost pulse three times in route, fluctuating at 54, temp 96, BP 70/40 pulse ox 62 on 100% oxygen. Ringers running wide open, pushed 4 liters of O+, patient is a living donor, blood type A+, his name is Mark McCormick."

As the door was suddenly open to the trauma room, Milt quickly found a barrier between him, and a restraining hand on his arm.

"Sir, I'm sorry. You can't go back there." he turned around to find a black female nurse nearly his own height who could certainly take him if he chose to disobey her.

"I just need to know how he is doing...he lost so much blood, and he wasn't breathing...and..."

"The doctors will do the best they can sir I promise, just like they did the last time, Mr. Hardcastle." Shock registered on his face as he stared curiously at her face.

"You were in such a state the last time you brought Mr. McCormick in, when I saw you, I knew it had to be him again. I'm Sarah, I'm the nurse in charge tonight, I promise if you have a seat and fill out what we need I'll keep you up to date on Mark's progress."

Milt's features softened. He wanted to jump up and kiss this woman, this angel of mercy, but he found he had no words for her.

Frank managed to make into the ER waiting room as Milt sat dumbstruck staring up at the nurse.

"Good evening Lt. Harper. Once these forms are filled out please help yourself to some coffee, it's in the nurse's lounge, if anyone gives you and trouble just tell them ..."

"Nurse Sarah said so...I remember." She winked at them both.

Milt, finally finding his voice, stared up at the woman in her purple scrubs as she handed him a pen and a package of wet wipes softly spoke. "Thank you."

"I'm gonna go now, I have to go check on Mark. We'll get you through this...no matter what." With a sweet and genuine smile, she disappeared into the trauma rooms. Milt knew the woman was true to her word, but all he could manage was another tight-lipped thank you, as he went about filling out the forms.

Milt mindlessly wrote down the information, sad and somewhat sickened that he remembered it all because it had been such a short time since the last visit. Every few seconds waiting, haunted eyes would glance up at the room as people rushed in and out with packs of blood, large machinery and a large red metal cart.

He knew he and Mark shared the same blood type A+, he did not tolerate morphine well, and he was terrified of restraints. One feverish night last winter, while Mark was fighting a particularly nasty strain of the flu, he had been privy to one of Mark's night terrors. Mark held his arms up where he had been bound with his hands above his head while something or someone in the dark assaulted him. He never probed further once Mark was well, and Mark did not remember the episode once his fever broke. But he was sure he was reliving a horrible memory as he kept chanting "no stop...help" in his terror-filled dreams. Prison, he was sure, had been hell for his young smart-mouthed friend. The kid didn't belong in prison. It was a wonder he stayed alive at all with the way he ran his mouth. Hardcastle felt sick when he thought of all the things that could have happened in there to him. He felt goose flesh rise on his arms, when the final patient history question came up.

'HIV was ravaging prisons and the homosexual community. parts of California were heavily infested with this unusual blight as symptoms could go undetected for years. Free range dirty needle use, prison assaults, rapes and a litter of other dangerous activities had brought previously taboo sexual situations into the front pages of newspapers. Men were being diagnosed with the sexually transmitted disease with no cure in rampant numbers, and although prisons, drug and heroin users were on the front lines of those diagnosed with the disease that was a rare death sentence, the prisons were no safer, and the virus continued to make headlines.

But, he knew McCormick. He nearly had to hold the man down with threats of violence to get him to even take an aspirin. He was terrified of needles, and well, he knew for sure he was an avid admirer of the female anatomy. Women were his libation of choice and he was addicted. But he was also careful. Living so closely with someone for more than three years he couldn't help but notice that the kid kept a handsome supply of contraceptives for battle. Somewhere deep inside he heard McCormick's voice say " Sorry I was late for revelry sir... Night Manuevers." He couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips as he read the sentence in his mind.

'Has the patient tested positive for HIV or AIDS?' He immediately put an X in the no box.

Milton C Hardcastle didn't know what to make of the next visitor to make her way into the hospital doors. However, he recognized her motherly expression instantly as she made a beeline for him in the chairs. He stood up to greet her.

"What are you doing here...how did you find out so quickly?"

"I'm so sorry judge, God I'm so sorry, the pictures started this morning, and when I saw Mark's face in my mind, I had to come. I called all night, left message after message, but no one answered."

The Judge's shoulders slumped over realizing he had ignored the phone, believing it to be neighbors calling to complain about the Jazzmaster's music.

"Is he? Do you know if he's gonna...?" Millie pulled him back down into the family issued torture devices that sufficed as waiting room chairs.

"I don't know. I still don't know what happened to him." Frank had just emerged from the lounge after wiping his hands clean of blood with the wipes and carrying two cups of coffee.

He was shocked to see Millie Denton sitting next to his friend.

" Mrs. Denton, when did you get here.? Don't tell me...you saw this happening and you warned them...I swear..."

"No. However, I do have some information that can help you. Surprise brought raised eyebrows to his face but they were all interrupted as a gurney came crashing out of the trauma room. Milt was out of his seat quicker than a shot block fade to the left. Neither Frank nor Millie had a chance to stop him as the clipboard clamored to the floor.

"How is he?" he demanded almost reaching the quickly moving gurney. Sarah stepped in and grabbed his arm.

"They are taking him up to surgery; Dr. Alexander did all he could for him down here."

"Please, can I have just second? Please…" he wasn't use to begging, but he'd never seen the kid look so bad. As they waited for the elevator to arrive, they held on to Mark to keep him on his right side. Hardcastle gently brushed a fatherly hand through McCormick's hair. With his left hand, he grabbed hold of his friend's hand. It was still cold, ice cold, his thumb automatically rubbed back and forth across the knuckles to warm them. He glanced quickly at the doctors and nurses as they nonchalantly turned and stared at a blank spot on the wall or counted the numbers of the descending elevator. Milt turned and whispered softly into his ear.

"Kiddo, I know it's rough going right now, but you're not getting out of our deal that easy. I promised I'd pay for your law school, and I aim to live up to my end of the bargain. That means you do too." He heard the elevator ding as they started to pull away, the Judge held fast. "Hang on kiddo...I'm right here." he cried out as he was nearly shoved aside and the doors were closed taking his young friend away from him. Milt felt the pull of a delicate hand at his shoulder, and he couldn't take his eyes away from the cold steel doors that had just consumed his best friend.

Would he ever emerge from those doors again? He could not face his questioner as he stared at the drops of blood on his well-worn sneakers and stained red hands.

"Judge Hardcastle, why don't you take a few minutes to go get cleaned up? Mr. McCormick will be in surgery for a while. I can personally check on him and make sure you are kept up to date. Then you can wait for him in the surgery waiting area."

"I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere...except maybe to call and find out if the cops have any leads on who did this to him. But I'm not leaving. YOu probably should, that's your department Frank. I want whomever did this. I want them buried under the jail."

"You should at least clean up and go get something to eat." Sarah waved a nonchalant hand towards his clothing as he glanced at the caked on blood to his blue jogging suit, rusty-red stained fingers and fingertips. It was at that moment that Lieutenant Frank Harper emerged from the waiting area and steered toward his shell-shocked friend. He handed Milt the wet wipes as the judge took them and automatically began to bathe the precious wasted drops of blood from his body.

They all stood silently until finally Frank looked up at Sarah and noticed for the first time, she did not have her warm welcoming smile on her face. Her lips were pursed into a thin line as she stared at Milt. Her hand still gently placed upon his shoulder. Her brown eyes were dark, as though she were in pain. He noticed her face mimicked that of the judge.

The silence dragged on for too many seconds, too many minutes. It began to feel like hours.

Finally, the judge cleared his throat and found his voice. He lifted his eyes to meet Sarah's as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"What are his chances?"

She expected that question and even though she had steeled herself with her full resolve, it still hit her like a sledgehammer when his piercing blue eyes stared into her own, and he demanded the truth. Nurse Sarah suddenly found herself surrounded by his two friends seeking that same answer. She sighed heavily and squeezed his shoulder.

"I've never lied to you, and I'm not gonna start now. It doesn't look good. But, I had better get up there so I can keep you apprised of what's going on. Just pray Mr. Hardcastle. Your friend is strong, just pray he's strong enough. Maybe this will help." She reached into her scrub pocket and pulled out a small envelope and placed it in his hand. Without words he clutched the small envelope, folded it quickly and tucked it into his pocket.

"It's Milt."

"Just pray Mr. Milt..." as she disappeared from sight the two men stared at Millie who seemed to be staring vacantly at them.

"Millie are you alright?"

"Did you see...I mean...can you see what's gonna happen to McCormick?" he asked hesitantly, unsure if he really wanted an answer.

She looked dizzy for a moment as she was led by both men to the plastic chairs, forgotten long in a vacated seat.

"I'm okay...I'm fine..."

"Millie...did you see something about him?" Frank still stared at the judge curiously. He still didn't understand what he meant about their former maid's ability to "see" anything that happened to McCormick.

She shook her head slowly. "No...but the girl, the girl that hurt him. I can see her."

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Coming up next Mark and the Judge talk about life and death . . .

My PSM for H & M fanfiction:  
Thank you for your reviews and patience. Apparently, this is not called fanfiction dot net, because when it comes to H&M fanfiction it's run by a few bullies. They think that because they did an amazing thing to get a Star for Brian Keith, and interviewed DHK, they think that they have the right to criticize anyone who doesn't follow their lead and keep it their idea of "canon". Well that must have been nice to write an episode guide, and it was a wonderful thing to do for such a talented actor.  
However, I'm not a follower. I don't want to be in your little club. I blaze my own trails. I can't stand bullies; especially ones who think they are more talented than everyone else is. As I understand from the numerous PM's that I have received, these bullies are constantly on the attack and act like loonies. I don't have time for that kind of idiocy. Write what you want to fiction writers because I damn sure will. If those individuals want fanfiction written a certain way they are, welcome to "take their hardball and go home", or stop bashing some of the fledgling writers on this site. You are not gonna scare me off… EVER. Your cheap shots and nitpicking means I'm in your head. I'm in your mind. I own you. Ha. Geez, really get a life.

I have seen some good writers fall off the map because of these bullies, but it's not gonna be me. As I have said before, my grammar is not perfect, if someone sees something glaring I will gladly fix it, but otherwise I just let it flow. Peace Love and Axle Grease


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